


Stones and Straws

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Magic, rule of three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: A greedy king hears of a thief who can take anything and transform it into gold. Metaphors, apparently, aren't his strong suit. Now Mick Rory's in deep shit.[Rumpelstiltskin AU...of sorts.]





	Stones and Straws

Mick looks at the mountains of straw, then at the spinning wheel in the center. Even the guards are pitying him.

"I want it all turned into gold by tomorrow morning," King Lewis declares.

Mick almost wants to tell him that what he'd heard was just a way to describe his skills as a thief. Y'know, when he  _steals things_. But he's trying to escape, not get executed, so he settles for glaring at the dumbass.

King leaves him to it. The guards will stand outside the door. Highest room, tallest tower, practically no handholds for a climb down. Maybe a few well-placed bribes will work. Mick's always been good at making deals. Problem is, he doesn't have anything but the clothes on his back right now, and pity doesn't mean the guards will take him at his word.

Could try a distraction. Fire's a kinda gold, and Mick can really make that out of anything. Ain't like he's not standing in a room of flammables. Burnin' and fightin' are his specialties. Aside from bein' a damn good thief, anyway.

"My, my. Looks like you drew the short straw."

Mick spins around. Running a slim finger along the wheel is a beautiful woman―easily the most beautiful he's ever seen. Her hair looks like gold itself, aged just right in a noble's trove. Her catlike eyes, a sharp blue, seem to glow in the fading sunset peeking through the tower's only window, making the shadows of her equally sharp cheekbones seem sharper. Her gown is woven gold, with long bell sleeves and swirling designs on the bodice that fade into bronze along the skirts.

It's definitely not a good idea to stare at her cleavage. Mick glances anyway. What? That v-neck highlights it so well. Never said he was a good guy, either.

Then Mick processes what she said and glowers at her. She smiles with red, red lips, innocent and guilty.

"Yeah, well," he says, "king doesn't know how t'take a joke."

She prowls at the edge of the straw piles, looking at it all. "Can't make one either. Though this one might be his first."

Mick's eyes narrow. "You sayin' he knows I can't do it?"

"Just a hunch, darling. The way I see it, if you  _can_ do what he wants, he'll have an endless supply of gold. If you can't, which is what he suspects, then a notorious criminal will be taken off the streets and he'll get to bask in the glory of being the one who caught the famous Mikel Rory."

Mick snorts. "Didn't think he had the brains."

The woman shrugs a shoulder. "My brother might have whispered some poison in his ear."

"... _what_."

"We like to make deals, my sibling and I. We saw an opportunity, and we took it. Just like you do."

Mick's fists clench. He wonders if she'll look prettier with a black eye or a bleeding lip. "That so?"

"Oh don't look at me like that. The king's favor is worthless to us." Real anger slips into her voice. "Believe me." And just like that, the honey smile's back. "No, what we want is  _you_. Did you really think we'd let someone like you go to waste?"

Mick charges for her. "You better―"

She holds up a hand, and his legs freeze. "Here's the deal. I will spin this straw into gold for you. In return, you'll put your talents to good use with me and my brother."

Pretty simple to put two and two together. Freezing someone with a wave of a hand, turning straw into gold? "You're  _fae_."

The woman's smile is enchanting as a blade. "And you're running out of time."

She's right. The moon's already at its peak―fae and time've always been strange bedfellows. Mick hisses a curse.

"What's it going to be?"

Mick glares at her. "You spin gold, the king'll never let me go. I go with you, I'll be forced to grovel for fucking fae for the rest of my life. Answer's  _no_."

The fae's brow touches her hairline. "Is that so?"

Mick crouches and starts feeling around the stone floor. Moonlight's doin' shit for his sight. "I'll take my chances with my  _abilities_ , lady. Tell your brother I said 'fuck you.'"

"...I must say, I've never heard 'no' before."

"Well congratu-fucking-lations to me." Aha. Mick finds two stray stones and heads to the nearest pile. "Better hope you don't burn. It's about to get hot in here."

"Mick, Mick, Mick," a new voice drawls from the dark, "I thought you were good at making deals."

What is with fae and appearing out of fucking nowhere? Why don't they knock out the guards and go through the door? Mick huffs and starts striking the stones together.

A pale hand clamps on his wrist. Mick hisses as his skin burns cold. Ice and him don't get along.

"Yeah," he snaps through grit teeth, not looking at the creature, "so I know when a deal's shit."

"You're not even a little bit curious as to what you'd do for us?"

The voice is nasal but smooth, arrogant confidence dripping with every word. Mick can't help but listen to it.

"Now, I like you, so I'll make a few things clear. Takin' slaves ain't our thing. We're our own brand of thieves, my sister and I. We just steal things that human hands can't touch. Constellations, sanity, ice gems and time quartz. Among many, many other things. And the humans we enlist, we give 'em power. The power to run with us, free and clear. What power they get depends on what type of person they are."

Mick doesn't know how the fae's lips got pressed right against his ear, but he can feel the frost tease at the lobe. He shivers, unable to do anything else.

"I specialize in ice," the fae says, "as you can probably tell. You, though―" the fingers on his wrist slide up to wrap around where his are still clenched on one of the rocks. "No doubt in my mind you'd be the perfect opposite. Think of it, Mick. No longer needing stones or matches. You could make fire with just a thought. And really, did you think I'd lock you up in here without an escape plan? All you'd need to do is prove your loyalty for three days, and you wouldn't just be in our crew. You'd be my  _partner_."

Mick's head sluggishly rolls the word around. He knows there's something else, but it's like he's fallen through a lake of ice, and the fae is standing above him, letting him drown beneath his boots.

All at once, the muddled feeling is gone, and the fae's standing at his sister's side. The sister, who for some reason is rolling her eyes.

"I'll give you three tasks to do while my sister fills her part of the deal," says the fae, "starting tonight."

"And if I guess your name?" Mick asks, "That's how you get out of fae deals, ain't it?"

The room plunges into silence.

The siblings look more inhuman than ever.

"We'll see about that," the fae says.

"I get three tries, one for every night," Mick replies. "I guess wrong all three times, I go with you. But if I guess right, I'm free of your deal and this dumbass king."

The sister watches her brother raptly. If anything, she looks like she's at a terribly fun show. She's got money on Mick never getting it right.

Eventually, the fae gives him a tight smirk. "Fine."

"Then we got a deal," Mick says, and a cold wind bursts through the tower.

The sister grins. "Well  _this_ will be fun. Care to take a guess now?"

"Nah," Mick says, "I'll save 'em. What do I gotta do?"

While his sister beckons some straw to her, the fae approaches him again. A moment later, Mick's blinking at the block of ice in his hands. It's about the size of his fist, with a vague shape of  _something_ in the center.

"Give me the key when I come back," the fae says. He smirks fondly at his sister. "Have fun, sis."

She winks, and the fae disappears in a billow of frost.

Mick snorts. "He always that dramatic?"

She laughs. They're both startled at the sound. "Oh, baby. That's barely the tip of the iceberg."

Mick glowers at her once again. She keeps laughing.

 

The moon's sinking at an alarming rate. The sister's almost halfway through, and Mick's still stuck holding the block of ice like a petulant kid with a broken toy.

He'd tried melting it. Struck those two stones together and got a spark. But the ice steamed, and the sister looked completely unimpressed. After sneering at her, Mick tried smashing it. But no matter how hard or far he threw it, the block didn't chip or even make a sound as it hit the ground. The sister was again unimpressed. After growling at her, Mick sat down and stared at it, and he's still doing it.

He'd known a guy who worked with ice, once. Dad was an ice seller. Mick swears he never saw the guy without a chunk of ice in his mouth. Loved makin' carvings out of the stuff, and wouldn't you know it, that dexterity was perfect for stealing some more expensive kinda ice.

"It's the littlest thing, sometimes," the guy'd told Mick, "that can make or break a sculpture. You know? Just the tiniest nick in the wrong direction, and the whole thing's ruined. Same's true for the reverse."

Mick'd been admiring the diamonds they'd stolen and couldn't give a rat's ass. But he figured, since the guy'd listened to his ramblings about fire, he could ramble a bit about ice.

Tiniest nick, huh? Too bad this little bastard's just a―

Mick's eyes widen. In the light of the sister's gold, he can see two tiny,  _tiny_ bits of ice sticking out of the back, weirdly-shaped. He traces them, and they feel like. Like  _hinges_.

Carefully tracing his big thumb around, he finds a depression on the other side. Turning it towards the light, he makes out a fucking  _lock_.

The fae had asked for a key. He doesn't know how to open the damn thing, and he expects Mick to figure it out. Or maybe there's a key to something else inside? Though, after hearing so many fairy tales, Mick wouldn't be surprised if it'd be the one to unlock this box. Sounds convoluted enough.

But if the fae steals stuff too, then he must know a thing or two about picking locks, so that's out.

Unless...

Setting the box between his legs, Mick grabs a handful of the remaining straw and his two stones. Quick as he can, he coaxes the straw to flame. Then, he puts the fire into the lock.

The box hisses, but doesn't steam. Water cascades onto Mick's fingers. The box doesn't open, but Mick knows he's on the right track.

He snatches a small pile of straw, uncaring that it gives the sister more of an advantage. He'll still win their race.

Over and over, he waits for the water to finish pouring out, and over and over he puts fire into the lock. He falls into a rhythm so easily, he's almost surprised when the box falls open.

There, in a puddle of water, is...well, Mick's not sure what it is. He reaches in and tugs.

A whole fucking coat comes flyin' out. Specifically, a parka, with a fur hood that's as soaked as the rest of it.

He grins at the sister, who is, at last, completely and utterly impressed.

"I'm a criminal," he says, "Who needs a key?"

 

Mick's lounging on piles of woven gold when the king enters.

His captors' jaws drop. They look hilarious.

"What?" Mick says, "I got bored."

Under the window, his coat covers the fae's parka.

 

Surrounded by newer and bigger piles of straw, Mick is given another day and left alone.

The fae and his sister come to him. When Mick holds up the now dry parka, the sister elbows her brother and says, "I told you."

The fae takes a few slow steps forward and takes it. He runs his hands along the material, and for the first time since Mick's met him, looks completely speechless.

"There wasn't a key, asshole," Mick says pleasantly, "N' I got a feelin' you knew that."

A slow smirk crosses the fae's face. "Well done, Mick. Very well done."

He dons the parka over his black ensemble. Somehow, he looks more  _complete_. He takes a deep breath, as if savoring a reunion.

Then he turns shining eyes back to Mick and says, "Your second task."

He holds out a dagger trapped in a sheath of ice.

"Unsheathe and transform it before my sister finishes spinning."

His sister blows him a kiss, and he disappears in another billow of frost.

Mick wrinkles his nose as a snowflake lands between his eyes.

 

Freeing the dagger's even easier than unlocking the box. Going by the sister's face, Mick doesn't think it's supposed to be. But now that he knows fire will work if he uses it right, well. You can't blame a pyromaniac for knowing how to use fire. He'll worry about the transforming part later.

He uses bits of straw and his stones again, this time running the flames along the dagger until there's a speck of water. His hands are shaking a little from hunger, but he pushes it down and focuses on the job. He's good at that, at least.

At the bottom of the sheath is where the water pours. Both he and the sister deplete the straw on gold and ice, until Mick's shaking out a flawless silver blade with a sapphire-encrusted hilt and she's on her last batch of gold.

Now for the hard part. Mick's never been too good at puzzles, but he likes working with his hands. So he turns the dagger this way and that, feeling his way along the hilt and minding the blade. There's an inscription in some fairy language he can't understand. Doesn't seem to be any weird patterns about the sapphires, and the shape of the hilt's pretty standard, if expensive as fuck.

It's not until he taps it against the stone that he realizes―"This a decoration?"

"Hm?" the sister says, though she sounds _delighted_.

Mick tries pricking his finger just to be sure. He snorts. "Ain't sharp at all. Probably couldn't even open a letter."

The dagger's hilt punches him in the nose. Mick yelps and drops it. His nose is bleeding.

The sister's giggling in her seat, but the dagger...Mick can't put his finger on it, but something's different about its shape. Or maybe he's just seein' double, because apparently decorative weapons pack a mean right hook.

But whatever. If it works, it works.

"Just sayin'," he continues, putting on his best shit-eating grin, "doesn't look like much."

The dagger trembles. The sister bites her lip, but can't seem to stop grinning.

"You guys take it off a noble's kid? Guess it's a little better than a wooden one, but―"

This time, Mick's ready. His palm stings from blocking the dagger's blade, but he holds strong, still smiling.

"Aw, look," he says, "it's  _angry_. Can't even prick my hand."

There's a high-pitched sound, the likes of which Mick's never heard. And then―

"You got it," the sister whispers.

Mick blinks at the― _thing_ lying in front of him. "Uh. Dunno what I got."

"The gun," the sister says, seemingly going through the motions of transforming the straw. "You got the gun back."

"What's a gun?"

The rest of the straw is swiftly converted, and the sister stands. The 'gun' seems to purr when she takes it. "My brother's. One of the things we stole when we were first starting out. It can take many forms, though―we never thought you'd get the  _original_."

"Gee thanks," Mick grunts.

But she looks at him with sincere amazement. "I think I know what my brother sees in you now."

"Sparklin' personality?"

She smiles. "Fire."

Mick raises his eyebrow. She's just getting that  _now_?

 

"Yes," the fae whispers as he holds his gun. There's a strap on his thigh now, and the gun fits perfectly in it. "Gotta say, I knew you could do it, but I didn't think you'd get my  _gun_ out of it."

"That's what your sister said," Mick replies, "Wasn't hard." He grins. "Just had to rough it up a little. Bastard doesn't like to be told it can't open a letter."

The gun seems to growl at him. He makes obnoxious kissing noises at it.

The fae, however, has an unreadable expression. "That it doesn't," he says.

When he approaches, Mick stands to meet him.

"The king will be around soon," the fae says, "You got a guess at my name yet?"

Mick shrugs.

"Then your third and final task is simple: when my sister finishes making her gold, jump out the window."

" _What_?"

The fae counts on his gloved fingers: "With the locked box, you proved that you were willing to look at all angles to reach the treasure within. With the dagger, you proved that you could make even the most stubborn entity show its true potential. Now that I've trusted you, you have to trust me. Prove your loyalty, remember? Unless," here, he grins deviously, "you can guess my name before the last piece of gold falls."

Mick snarls, "You were plannin' to kill me this whole time?"

"Come now, Mick. Why would I do that?"

"You're fae. You tell me."

The fae wiggles his fingers at him, winks at his sister, and disappears.

The sister looks around at the heaps of straw. They reach the ceiling now. "At least you've got a while to think. He's lucky I love gold so much. I'm getting every last scrap of it, mark my words."

Mick goes to the window and starts to think. He wracks his brain for every ice fairy tale he knows, but they're few and far in between because he hates ice. He spends hours thinking and thinking and thinking, but he only has three guesses, not three hundred.

Soon enough, he's craving fire. Constant itch for 'im, especially when he's panicking. Not that he's  _panicking_ , just―stuck between a rock and a hard place. His dad always said men couldn't panic, especially  _his_ son, no matter how stupid or useless Mick was.

Damn it. If he's gettin' thoughts about his dad, he really needs fire.

Slowly, Mick slides to the floor and takes his stones out. He lights some straw and holds it until its ash in his hands and there are fresh burns on his fingers. It calms him as quick as it ignites. If there's anything Mick Rory can count on in this world, it's fire.

Maybe he can stuff himself with straw and set himself ablaze before jumping out the window. If he waits long enough before the plunge, he'll die before he hits the ground. He snickers at the thought.

"What?" the sister asks.

"Scarecrows," Mick replies.

His brow furrows.

Scarecrows.

He nearly drops the straw.

 

Mick jumps.

A frozen wind carries him off. He wiggles his fingers at the screaming guards and feels like a fuckin' kid again.

 

"Couldn't guess, then?"

Mick's feet hit free ground in a forest clearing. The fae is draped over a large boulder.

Mick grins. "Leonard Snart."

The air freezes. The fae snaps up.

Mick takes a couple steps forward. "When I was a kid, my family had a farm. We grew all sortsa stuff, sold it in the city. Crows were damn annoying, so we put up a scarecrow in the cornfield."

The fae's throat clicks.

"'Bout a year before my family burned, I was pickin' corn. And hidin' behind the scarecrow, I see this little runt holdin' somethin' tight. He was barely half the size 'a the stalks. Dressed real nice. I'm talkin' jewels and everything. Looked like it weighed 'im to the floor.

"And a little ways away, I heard shoutin'. Lots of it. And the runt got so scared. I'll never forget those eyes. I asked the kid's name―imagine my surprise when he gave the prince's name. And in his arms was a little bundle 'a baby. Liselle, his little sister. I touched his shoulder, and damn, he was ice cold. Told 'im my name, asked 'im why he was hidin'. Said his dad was gonna hurt his sister. Now I know crap dads. So I gave 'im a shortcut to the woods and ran in the opposite direction. Lead the king's guards right to me. Said I was chasin' some birds off, 'cause our scarecrow wasn't doin' shit."

The fae's fingers steamed with ice.

Mick stops in front of him, nearly toe to toe. "Question is: how the fuck are you fae?"

"I always was," Snart says quietly, "just got trapped. But if I could escape for three weeks, I would be free. Same went with my sister."

Mick hums. "You wouldn't happen t'know about a diamond heist about two years back?"

Snart smirks. "Might've exaggerated my dad's talents. Just the tiniest nick here and there, and you thought I was human."

"Human? I thought you were a  _twink_."

"Was just testin' you. You saved my life―I had to repay you somehow."

"And, what, diamonds weren't enough?"

Snart tilts his head. "Not after watchin' you work. You had so much potential, Mick. You're good at what you do, but you could be  _better_."

"And you wanna make me better, that it?"

"I could manifest your fire for you. It'll be just like I said."

"You're not answerin' my question."

" _Yes_. And―you proved that you can do the same for me." Snart grimaces. "But since you guessed my name, you're free of our deal."

"Yeah, I am. So here's a new one." Snart perks up. Mick counts off on his fingers: "One: I want a coat. Fire resistant, like I'm bettin' yours is with ice. Two, I want one 'a those fancy guns, and I want it to shoot fire. Don't care if I get powers or not bein' your partner, I want one of those things. Three..." he bares his teeth, "Spin straw into flame. And in return, I'll be your partner."

Snart snickers. Then he laughs.

"We need to get my sister her rightful gold, first."

"If she doesn't already have it all. That'll be our test run."

Snart grins. "Then, Mick. You have a deal."

 

And they actually did live happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> Endings? What are endings lmao

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stones and Straws [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16247696) by [litrapod (litra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litrapod)




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